“I know, but it is not just that, Annette. We trusted the British again. They drew us into this war, and now they are running back to their island.”
“It is absurd, and I, for one, look forward to the end.”
“Don’t say that, please.”
“Marie, France is going to lose. How can we not? Just look at what is happening, right here in Orléans. The government tells everyone in the district to bring in the horses. What do they do? Round them all up in the town square. Does the army ever come to get the horses? No. Who will feed these horses? Who will give them water? Look at what our country has come to? We turned our back on God, Marie. The government kicked out the church from the schools and look—rot. We are as rotten as a fallen log in the woods.”
Marie’s mother, father, little sister, and brother came into the town square. Gathered all around were horses. “Mommy, I want to pet the horses,” the little girl said.
“Papa, are they giving rides?” the son asked.
“No, we are going to the market. We need to get something to eat for the long trip,” he said, as they made their way around the square to the other side, to where tents had been set up along a side street.
“There is no petrol. Are you walking? You should stay here in Orleans with us. It is safer than the roads. At least when they bomb here, there are shelters below,” Annette continued.
People in the market looked up, as they could hear the buzz of the planes from somewhere above. No one was quite sure of the direction. People in the market started to get excited, and Marie’s mother had let go of her brother and sister for just a second, not knowing they had walked back toward the horses.
The father looked up at the sky, and then back at his wife, who was trying to buy some fruit. Just then, the planes came down on the town square and the sound of their guns spit down upon them.
“What is that?” Marie asked.
“Oh my God, it is another raid!” Annette said. “Get away from the window!”
Marie left the window crisscrossed with tape, and ran for the door.
“Why are there no sirens?” Marie asked.
“See, I told you! It is a farce. We cannot even sound the alarms for the raids.”
The father spotted his two kids, just maybe forty feet away, not even to the town square yet. He ran for them as the planes then came in over the square, shooting into the horses. They went wild and broke free of their ropes.
A bullet got her father in the chest and belly. Another bullet got her mother in the back of the head. But the horses got Marie’s little brother and sister.
Marie ran from the flat, and had just reached the end of the small street that led back to the town square. The horses ran wild down the street past her as she hugged the side of a building. Once they had passed, she ran down to the market, where she found her family, just where they said they would be waiting for her.
May, 1944
Paris, France, Fresnes Prison
“You are worse than even the Jews. Soon France will be free of you Jews, foreigners, and Communists!”
When will she stop?
Marc wondered as he awoke. “What are you, Marc? You are just a coward running away from home, running away from death, always running away. You talk of price—what have you lost in this war? What price have you paid? You’re just a fucking rich Yankee kid, lost in France, pretending to be someone.”
The agent opened the door and called down the hallway for the guard.
“I bet you even pretended to believe in God just to get me. You are even less than the Jews, you piece of shit.” Marc slumped in the chair in a state near delirium.
A guard appeared in the doorway. “Take her out of here,” the agent told the guard.
“I will go, don’t worry. You will get your answers,” Marie said to the agent.
“You should have left Paris when you could, Marc,” she said hatefully, “and never come back.” The door slammed shut.
“Too much
Au Jour d’Hui
for her, or
Action Français
.
Français, Français seulement
,” Marc said with a laugh, in a mocking voice. He took a deep breath as he looked up at the agent and then passed out cold.
The agent fell back into his chair. He ran his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes in frustration. He looked up at Marc in front of him, out cold.
“Let’s take a break. Yes, I think a break would be good. Do you mind?” he asked Marc, slumped over unconscious in the chair.
The agent then studied the cards and the board behind him. He walked back and forth in front of the desk, his eyes scanning everything he had laid out. The answer is here, he thought. Then the idea struck him. He looked back at Marc slumped over in the chair.
“I will be right back. Please, make yourself comfortable. I promise not to take too much longer,” the agent said, smiling at Marc.
In just a few moments, he returned to the room with another woman, a guard, and a typewriter. He began to talk very fast in German and the woman translated it into English. He then motioned the guard to wake Marc with a glass of water. Marc woke with a violent thrashing.
“Please try to stay awake. This has been the fourth time we have tried to move through these charges. I need you to focus,” the agent said as he pounded his fist upon the desk.
“
F
rench, Français seulement
,” Marc spoke up, smiling and laughing. He felt a euphoric rush of energy once Marie had left the room. He was not even sure when she had left, but eternally grateful to the guards for his rescue.
“You are an American, and therefore our conversation must be in English,” the German agent said.
“I was born in Paris. I am a citizen of France as well as America. I have been here for five years and I want to understand what you are charging me with. Can you please read the charges in French?” he said in French. He sat up, as if prepared for a birthday cake to be brought to him, for his candles to be blown out.
The agent nodded and then began reading over the charges. The translator’s French was even better than her English.
“You are charged with conspiracy against Germany, aiding and abetting the enemy, distributing false papers,” and the list went on and on and on. The details were mind-numbing to Marc as he listened to them, from his job at the hospital to his relationship with Marie.
How odd to include her
, he thought, and realized then they had prepared this ahead of time.
I think I might have just had a nap
, he thought as he lost track of the woman’s voice.
“Dr. Sumner Jackson, who is the snake, Torquette Jackson, who is the turtle, Marc Tolbert, who is the weasel.” Marc then puckered like a weasel, twitching his nose. He started to laugh out loud. Officer Sean was right. Everything he said about the Nazis had been right, and he was watching it right in front of his very eyes. The entire thing played out like some bizarre comedy.
The German agent then stopped. “Do you have anything to add to these charges, Weasel?”
Marc was shocked by the question because he had no idea that he would have an opportunity to add anything. The possibilities intrigued him. “You know almost everything. I am shocked at how detailed it is. I am stunned that you figured it out,” his voice came from another source, as if his body had been possessed from far away.
The agent smiled. “Yes. We are very thorough. You are not in the hands of the Milice here, Weasel,” he said proudly, his tone calm and even.
Marc looked at the huge chart behind the agent, with the cards laid out on the table in front of him and the cribbage board.
“I am not the weasel,” he barked, deciding to pick a fight.
The agent looked exasperated at Marc. “You are the weasel, Sumner is the snake, Torquette is the turtle. We know you are the weasel!”
“Because she told you,” Marc said slowly.
The agent smiled, “Not only that but, Winoc, your first name starts with ‘W,’ and that means you are the weasel. You are smart, very smart. You are the weasel.”
The man is insanely stupid
, Marc thought, even in his delusional sleepwalk.
“I am not the weasel,” Marc repeated in a sluggish tone.
“You are the weasel. The snake is the doctor who cares, who heals the birds. Torquette is the turtle who keeps them in her shell for protection, and you are the weasel who covers up the tracks and takes them away. Weasel, who is in the henhouse now? If I ask you, I am sure you would tell me it is the cow. Now, who is ‘Rabbit’?” the agent demanded of him. He almost pleaded, as if for his own life. “You have told me before you know.”
“You want an Iron Cross, you got to do better than that. I am not the weasel,” Marc said. He felt unsure of himself as he struggled to remain focused. His mind burned with a singular desire to fall asleep.
“You are the weasel, don’t lie. I am not a fool. Tell me who is ‘Rabbit’?” he asked again in a fatherly tone, full of concern and sympathy.
“I am not the weasel, and there is no rabbit,” Marc said, looking up at the board and all the various cards and names that meant nothing to him at all. It was completely and utterly a uniquely crazy fantasy of the German officer, created from the random things they had gathered at the two houses. Marc never expected any of these cards to mean anything at all, but here he was, fighting over them, screaming over them.
“You are the weasel, Marc! I know that! You know that! Marie knows that—everyone knows that. Who is …,” the agent continued on.
“I am ‘R!’” Marc’s voice burst open.
The agent froze at the desk. He turned around and looked at the board. Marc knew he now had the agent, because he never considered this possibility before and never expected Marc to confess to being ‘R.’ He could see how the agent was looking at the relationships, and trying to work them out. He could hear the German officer in his head. “Yes, give him what he wants. He wants that Iron Cross, Marc. This will go straight to the top, big report, important finding, critical to victory, promotion and medal …”
“Marie is the weasel,” Marc spurted out in laughter.
The agent turned and said, “You are lying. Marie is not the weasel. You are the weasel.” He was disgusted. “I do not believe you. Look at you. You are doing it now, covering up, and playing tricks trying to get out of this. You are a trickster, Marc. Just admit it.”
“
Marc, Marc
,” Officer Sean said as he came out from behind Marc.
When did he get in here?
Marc thought to himself. He smiled with warmth for him, feeling safe that he was in the room. “
Pay attention to me and work with me. He wants the Iron Cross and you want the bread. Now, Marie is the weasel and you are ‘R.’ What is ‘R?’ Look, come on, Marc, I got some bread here for you
,” Officer Sean said. Marc could see the Gestapo agent right through him.
Marc looked down at the table. The cards sat spread out in front of the cribbage board next to the plate of bread the agent had placed for him. His mind ran blank. He then looked up at the agent and said, “The rabbit is dead, but I am ‘R.’ I am the raven,” he said with just the right tone of defeat in his voice. The words rolled out from him with a complete sincerity.
Of course he is the raven
, Marc thought as he heard his own confession, but it surprised him that he had even said it, for he had no idea what it meant.
The agent turned back and looked straight into Marc’s eyes and then down at the cards. He scanned them quickly, finding the raven card. A smile broke across his face.
He snatched it up and tagged it to the board. The rabbit card he tossed back down upon the desk. The agent then stepped back and studied the cards.
Marc watched in total amazement at what a thoroughly insane pile of utter bullshit they had come up with from just a bunch of cards and names. He was slightly amused by the fact that he had to solve it for them. He felt a deep sense of well being that he was solving their problem while borderline insane, plus satisfied that he was able to include Marie’s name. The agent had his Iron Cross, and Marc had the last word about Marie.
The agent stood stunned and captivated by the beauty of his cards. It was as if he totally forgot that Marc was sitting in the room, waiting to be led to his cell. He took one last look at the cribbage board.
“You are lying. You cannot be the raven. You gave Marie your card. You told her, you are the weasel,” he snapped back at Marc.
“I am the raven. I steal the food, clothes, and supplies for the nest. I fetch for the turtle and the snake.” Marc was careful not to look up into the agent’s eyes until he said, “But the weasel is whoever must take the birds away. I did not tell Marie I am the weasel,” Marc was breathing deeply and his heart raced in his chest from the exhaustion. “I told her to say
she
is the weasel, because she had a bird to take away.”
The agent then picked up Marc’s identity card and saw for the first time the initials, “W” and “R,” for Winoc Rémy. He slammed the card against his head, and then down upon the table.
“You are both. You are a raven, but also the weasel, but only the weasel when you need to be. It is brilliant!” the agent said.
Then Officer Sean from Saint-Nazaire looked at Marc with pride. “
Good job, Marc. He is going to get his Iron Cross. You have given him the promotion, the one he wants and needs. Now the bread is yours for the taking
,” and then Marc saw him walk through the wall and out of the room.
The agent stood stunned at Marc’s confession. He had everything now: the snake, the turtle, and the raven. He had them all, and the weasel he had as well, and just did not know it. And he was proud because, now, not even Berlin had cracked this code. He had all the answers. The days and nights finally had paid off, and he was able to crack Marc himself without Marie’s help.
Then Marc asked what he had never asked before. He said words that had never come from him in all the days and nights of questioning.
“May I … May I now … have that bread,” Marc asked while looking at the plate next to the cribbage board.
The officer turned away from the board, and then down at the bread. He quickly picked it up and brought it to Marc and said, “Yes, you may, my raven.” Then he went to the door and called a guard, and then told the secretary to change the charges. He even brought in a sausage for Marc, and he ate it while they read the charges in French, “
Marc, who is the raven, is charged with …
”